Excuses & Reasons
by Adventures in Anomalies
Summary: Ulquiorra and Grimmjow just might have found a way in which both of them can be winners in their fights. But who has the upper hand, and who has the real victory?
1. The Common Surprises

It had started off like any other battle-brash, bloody, mindless, pointless.

At least, in Ulquiorra's opinion. All of Grimmjow's fights were picked with no purpose, except possibly to relieve his boredom-but even then the Cuarta doubted he had the most basic of logic. Grimmjow was reckless and rash- though Ulquiorra had no idea why he chose _him _to lash out at.

_A mad cat_, he thought, easily dodging another one of the Sexta's swipes and inwardly smirking at his hiss of frustration, when he missed a second time.

"ULQUIORRAAAA!" snarled the Sexta, the Cuarta was driving him crazy, coolly avoiding his attacks as if he were swatting away a fly, and not a ferocious feline.

He was furious, for no specific reason. He didn't need any excuses, unless he was forced to explain before Aizen why a particularly large chunk of Hueco Mundo's castle hallways had been smashed to smithereens. His _realm_, thought Grimmjow bitterly, his precious little domain. He rather liked the idea of the so-called palace being reduced to rubble, as he demolished another few pillars with a cero.

''Aizen-sama would not approve of your wild behavior, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez,'' intoned Ulquiorra monotonously, though the sentence was said stoically (as ever) it sliced through the Sexta's thoughts suddenly, since his superior rarely spoke during their brawls.

"Shut up! I couldn't care less what the hell your Aizen-sama approves of or not!'' yelled Grimmjow, aiming a kick at Ulquiorra which was calmly blocked with his wrist, before the former was flung back into the wall.

"You would do well to mind your manners and mend your temperament, Sexta. And he is not my Aizen-sama. I am his, _we_ are his. He is only mine in the respect of being my creator and lord, as he should be _yours_…and honored accordingly."

"I told you…to SHUT IT!'' shouted Grimmjow, launching himself forth at the fourth from the colossal dust cloud of the crumbled concrete columns.

_Fool, he never learns_-but his thoughts were cut off by the sense of shock invading his sentiments, as he realized that it was Pantera, not Grimmjow who leaped forward and tackled him, smashing through the walls and tumbling the two of them into the cold, barren night of the desert.

The Cuarta, to his credit, barely coughed as he took a moment to recover his breath. When his senses returned as well, he had realized that Pantera was sitting astride him, hands around his throat, claws already drawing little rivulets of blood that streamed down and disappeared into his hollow hole, though not before staining his high-collared jacket a bright crimson red. But not as bright as the triumphant gleam in Grimmjow's eyes, glinting dangerously.

Ulquiorra sighed. Now Aizen-sama would have to get someone to make another. He did hate having to inconvenience his master. And himself. To be honest, the man unnerved him ever so mildly. He was in no way uneasy or at a discomfort in his presence, but there was something distinctly perturbing, however slight, about his master's reiatsu. As a being of great power himself, Ulquiorra could sense it - Grimmjow, he considered as he lay beneath him, Grimmjow was probably too stupid to acknowledge that arduous element in Aizen's aura, and hence persisted in putting himself at peril by defying the man. Thus it was left to the Cuarta, practically Aizen's right hand man, to deal with the wild, impulsive idiot.

In other words, to pulverize him. Almost with boredom, Ulquiorra felt the spirit particles start to stir and swirl in his palm, channeling from the atmosphere to his pale hand to form a cero. In a single blow, it would be all over. Again. Till the next day perhaps. Or the morning.

Then it would start all over again.

It was at this moment that that Ulquiorra glanced up into Grimmjow's cerulean blue eyes, blazing with an internal craze, sparking with some strange fire. The Cuarta found himself fascinated, in spite of himself. Forgetting his cero, he stared deep into his (currently) dominant competitor, curious.

"…Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

''What?'' growled Grimmjow, his tail twitching in irritation at Ulquiorra's incomprehensible reaction to getting bashed into the ground.

"Aren't you gonna blast me off your body?What the hell d'ya mean 'Why'?" In a single swift movement, his tail snapped once against the sand before it lashed across Ulquiorra's face, whipping his countenance till it dripped blood.

"Why…"said Ulquiorra, unfazed and calmly wiping away at his cheek, still holding Grimmjow's gaze, "do you so insist on being such an _idiot_, Jaegerjaquez?"

At this, Grimmjow snarled and grabbed him by the collar before slamming him down into the sand again forcefully. Perhaps it was his helmet that protected him, but Ulquiorra merely grunted as his head made contact with the ground again.

"Ah, that's going to ache for a bit,'' Ulquiorra commented almost absentmindedly as he carefully felt his helmet (and head) to make sure neither was cracked.

"Why…what the hell…why aren't you fighting back, you bastard!" snarled Grimmjow, punching him directly in the face. It was merely a glancing blow though, as Ulquiorra twisted his wrist in a way that made Grimmjow yell out in agony.

"Why are you fighting?" muttered Ulquiorra, in a nearly pensive tone. "It's always the same result. You attack, I retaliate, you constantly end up with bruises and broken bones. You always lose."

"Not tonight," grinned Grimmjow, even as he was still gripped painfully.

With a sigh, Ulquiorra released him, to earn an incredulous what-the-hell-are-you-going-to-do-now look from the man above him. His expression was priceless-the fourth found himself struggling to hold back a smirk.

"You really aren't going to fight back?" asked Grimmjow in disbelief.

"Not tonight," came Ulquiorra's reply.

Grimmjow stared, perplexed for a moment, before his wild, roguish grin reappeared madder and broader than ever before.

"Well, in _that _case…" He raised his left arm, the hand curled into a fist.

"_No_, Grimmjow."

In a flash, Ulquiorra's hand was pressed against his cheek, cupping Grimmjow's face with deceptive gentleness. The Sexta froze completely, stunned both by how soft his superior's touch was, and by the pure power he felt in that palm. He didn't want to die yet, so he stayed perfectly still.

"_Please, _Grimmjow..._Please."_

* * *

Ohhh, I wonder what Ulqui wants with Grimmjow! :P I guess the few of you reading this do too! haha, well feed me some feedback, it'll prompt me to develop on this faster, and better! Thanks for reading!


	2. Presence-Absence

_Glancing at you, a split second shift of irises- and yet the scene was slit apart for me to see. The brightness spilling forth from your eyes into your smile, that smile of slips bordering on a near maniacal smirk with a playful, so inviting edge, irresistible, and yet I denied myself from claiming it as my own, to secretly smile in triumph at your shock, at the surprise of snatching your usual composure away in a swift, single moment, to shake you, to take you, to make you mine._

_In that second, I'd be your first. Yes, it'd be my first time as well- the first and last time I seized you. Because after that, I imagine your countenance would contort into confusion, you're confounded by this rash foolishness- even though you know all about being wildly your still beautiful features would shift to rage, an amazing expression and you strike-just once._

_I'm the stunned one now, on my back with the breath knocked out of me. Though I expected the blow, I had no idea it would be this...this powerful, and yet controlled. Almost uncharacteristic for you. You put a perfect amount of force behind it, to deliver that perfectly clear message that you were in perfect control,over the situation, over me, over your perfect self._

_Even as I lay there, I consider that every day you take my breath away anyway. Your walk, your talk, the sight and sound and sometimes the silence that is you. And your touch, if ever you did, it'd make me breathless- but no, you'll never, that's surely impossible.I'll never hear such a special silence from you- the sort that is barely punctuated by graceful gasps, or graceless groans- I can't decide which I'd rather listen to through out the night, this eternal evening of the desert...Definitely though, I want to hear my name torn from your lips, a scream, a cry, a moan-or even just a whimper, I want to hear it, to break you and your silence, just for once. But of course, that'll never happen. _

_How is it that an absence can define anything, let alone anyone? How has the emptiness in my hand evolved to the shape of someone, a person...a person who I felt nothing for, and thought even less of. Yet this nothingness has consumed me wholly, and I can do nothing about it, and you._

_The only physical contact we'll ever have is in our fights, but even then, you're so far out of reach, you're untouchable. The only time you'll gaze at me is in contempt, or more typically, boredom- an insulting indifference toward me.  
_

_It happens tonight.  
_

_Blue, green orbs glower, flickering with fury; livid and eyes are alight, shining like sapphires, glittering like emeralds and glowing with loathing.  
_

_Surely you must be shaking, trembling inside with anger, right?  
_

_Your voice is perfect._

_"ULQUIORRA!" is snarled, lunging forward and launching a cero. I see the satisfaction gleam in your eyes, reflecting the light from the bright blue ball blazing toward me..._

_Your voice is perfect._

_Perfectly steady, crisp, cold; and somehow detatched and devoid of the vehemence that you harbour, a displeasure desperate to haunt me-yet you refuse to betray it, loyal to your stoic mask as you are to Aizen. _

_"Trash."_

_You utter a single word to deal the final blow._

_I had expected that, but not just that. I had anticipated, or maybe I had wanted, you to curse and yell and unleash your wrath, but there was none of that. Not a single death threat. It was like I wasn't worth your time or temper. As if to do any of that would be to waste your attention._

_"Ulquiorra," I hiss as my fingers curl, clenching into a fist, the brevity of your breath is a curt and cruel cut, an attack edged with insults unsaid._

_There's no response from you though, not a hint of hesitance. No falter in your step, no slight pause to turn to deliver a scathing shot. You move further and further away from me, closer to the exit, slipping out of my grasp and into the shadows of Hueco Mundo's hallways._

_Aizen's hallways. They belong to him, and all who walk them do as well, walking and waiting on his commands. What rubbish. We made our own paths, tearing through a million souls, from the forest of Menos Grande, monsters that merged and yet we emerged- individual Espadas with the power of being, that belongs to us, the strongest, above all other Adjuchas and Arrancars. We ran from the threat of repulsive regression, to return to nothing more than an existence as a multitude of weaklings with no wills, these we buried in our bodies, beneath blood and bone and beyond skin and flesh to have a name of our own at last._

_"Ulquiorra," I growl as you disappear from sight. I'm defeated, again._

_But I can feel it, I'm getting close to hitting you, to closing the distance between us. I've lost to you another time tonight, but...I haven't lost you._

_"Ulquiorra..."I whisper a fourth and final time, before you and everything else fades from my view, the darkness swallows all, including me._

* * *

Grimmjow and Ulquiorra stared at each other from their rather unusual positions, the latter's hand still upon his inferior's face, a frown carved upon his rugged features. Tense expressions, and thoughts were etched and shared upon both countenances.

"_I could kill him, it'd be so easy, here and now._"

"_Why is he touching me this way though?It's uncomfortable."_

_"..."_

_"..."_

_"...What is this heat I feel rushing to my face?"_

_"I can still kill him though...right?"_

* * *

Hello folks, just a slight edit. I've combined chapter 2 and 3 together to make them easier to read, and also I think it's better for the story. Anyay, thanks to anyone and everyone who's read this and do continue to let me know what I can with your reviews do to improve!(:

~Wriot


	3. A Psychopath & A Sycophant

___I am the Grim Reaper, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez._

Seething, boiling-in my muscles and bones a fire fueled by the essence of blood, like gasoline. It's something internal, inherant, ingrained - I was born with it, and I passed on with it. I'll probably perish with it again-but that suits me fine. I don't mind. Born in blood, bathed in it, and I'll kick the bucket the same way too.

Blood, dripping down the sides of my enemies' heads, their skulls split open, craniums cracked and brains exposed like a crude crucible or container from which carrion feed, flocks of carnivourous birds circling bodies and bodies soon to be corpses, the crows herald the call of Death, to die- to be killed at my hands.

Blood, gushing forth from a fatal wound, the pathetically mortal cries and screams of fear as I plunge deep into them, the warmth, the heat, the softness of their insides enveloping me, till I rip my hand out again, now covered in their blood, trickling down my fingers stained a deep, dark beautiful crimson.

The final shrieks of my enemies, a sound that would sicken so many others, to me it is a sweet symphony. A chorus of chaos, the tune of their terror throbbing, humming heavily in my veins.

Did I say shrieks of my enemies? Heh, it doesn't really matter who they belong to though- foe, or…ally, I'll fight all of them. Any of them. As long as I've got an opponent, I've got a victim.

That's what I thought, for the longest time. Didn't matter who or what I was-human, soul, hollow soul, Adjuchas, Arrancar, Espada…I didn't have a murderous mood, no, it was part of my personality.

But then came along that bastard Aizen, messing up everything-putting in place his bloody, or rather _non_-bloody regimes and freaking rules that prevented me from picking any fights. What the hell! What the hell was the point of having so much power and then restraining yourself, not using it to beat the crap out of someone, what a waste! Did that dumbass really expect me to sit around all day drinking his damn tea (which tastes terribly bland, by the way)! I don't understand how any of the others tolerate this crap, _his_ crap. Except Nnoitra, damn, that's one berserk bastard if ever I met one. He's the only guy who even begins to understand the 'fun' in the most fundamental of fights. Although we may share some of the same principles, that seven foot freak of a Quinta, who may supposedly outclass me-_ is in no way my equa_l.

They're all creeps, in their own way.

Especially that Ulquiorra, pah, he _sickens_ me! What is it about all the Espada ranked 4th and lower, they're all a bunch of bums sitting around placidly till Aizen orders them to do something, particularly that coward of a Cuarta - he's not just a servant, he's a sychophant. The rest of us may be enslaved to that idiot, but it's like he _enjoys_ running around fulfilling every ridiculous request and pandering perfectly to his master.

Disgusting, that's what it is. _He is._

Don't get me wrong, Ulquiorra's in no way a pacifist. None of us are; why do you think we're Espada in the first place, for crying out loud? It's cause there's an unquenchable thirst for blood and an insatiable hunger for violence, we feed off the ferocity in our fights. A strong spiritual pressure is like the scent of an appetizing meal to me, smells that spell the delightfully delicious sense of destruction, where I can dine off the death of my opponents. We're cannibals of course, we consume each other to get more powerful, till we're consumed with the mad desire to devour_ everything, everyone_.

It's dangerous, we can get so drunk with this desire, so intoxicated we lose our identity of individuality. Obsessively caught up in our pursuit of satisfaction, we forget _who_ we're trying to fulfill. When your very existence is threatened, there's a beauty in the most basic of battles, the issue of the instinct to survive, simple and pure. This lure of life (or what we Arranacar can call _life_) is a matter that's profoundly primordial, not personal, and it's what perfected _Pantera._

Come to think of it, I've never seen Ulquiorra's Resurreccion, but I bet it must be a helluva strong. Could it be that he's so powerful he sees no need to improve himself? Is that the reason for his persistently 'peaceful' disposition? The guy isn't easily provoked, but there's something uncannily potent about him and his aura- I don't understand it, but it isn't going to stop me from beating the crap out of that Cuarta. Someday. Soon.

_Soon the Sexta will look upon...and look up? at his superior, transformed. What changes will be there be, what experiences to see? As emeralds gaze and sapphires glare, gripped in a vice-like view, the light glittering in them may reflect the steel of their souls, though one denies its existence, and the other disregards it._

_**You. Damn You. Why did it have to be you? Of all the others, why you?**  
_

_You create and keep me crazy.__You...you really confuse me, y'know that? _  


_No, of course you don't.  
_

_Whatever your evil little eyes see, exists. Whatever it's blind to, is a bunch of batshit.  
_

_That's your philosophy, isn't it?  
_

_Of course you'd phrase it more elegantly- or stoically rather, without such severity. But sorry, I don't have your eloquence, or the time and patience to equip my speech with it. I'm not so passive as you. I say what I mean, as much as you mean what you say.  
_

_But I'm always at a loss for words around you, I can only curse and yell because I have no damn idea how else to communicate with you. And then you respond so coolly, callously that it drives me crazy all over again.  
_

_You really know how to rub me the right...wrong way, huh Cuatro? Even if you're not aware of it. You can't see how you're such a pest. Well, let me explain then.  
_

_I hate your touch, it exasperates me. Your monotony is maddening as well. Your reluctance for combat just aggravates things...me, more. I'm a psychopath in your presence.  
_

_But don't I like that, that chaos, that rage I've felt throughout time and age? The delicious rush of insanity evoked by your mundanity? How my blood burns with a fire, a desire sparked by my ire at you? Then it's flooded with an adrenaline, indescribable and incomparable to anything I've ever felt before. You're always so calm, so perfectly in control- but for me, I have no say in the matter, it's an almost involuntary reaction to the desire to destroy, the will to kill you._

_You can't, or you can barely detect this danger because you insist that 'Seeing is believing',and for you it's impossible to view emotions. I'm not gonna question that. But answer me this: When will you acknowledge my anger and see that I despise your demeaning ways? Will you realize it when you watch me bury my blade in your breast? I'll show you my fury then, since you can't feel it.  
_

_I'll only calm down if I bring you down. Or if I am subdued by you. HAH! What are the chances of the latter happening! There's no possibility that I'll allow it!  
_

_Bloodlust, in my veins my blood howls for yours. I wish to lunge and plunge my hands deep inside your stomach, or grab your throat and make you choke, splutter and cry, so that finally something will flow down those twin teal tear tracks of yours. What is that? Terror? Trapped and crushed against a concrete column, would you beg for mercy?  
_

_Of course not, Cuatro. Your trepidation toward me is no more true than my trust in Aizen. The taste of your blood, and the fear mixed in it, is mere fantasy. Bittersweet, but mmmh, nonetheless tempting thoughts of ruthlessly tearing through your skin, savouring the rich sounds of your screams and agony, like ambrosia so exquisite on the tongue- I won't rush this meal fit for a King.  
_

* * *

_woooahh, Grimmy really needs to see a therapist. Maybe I do too, for writing him this way! ;P Was it decent enough? Good? Bad? Tell me with your reviews!  
_

_Eaaasy there, Tiger.  
_

_I'M A PANTHER! RRRRRAWWWRRR!  
_

_*Claws swipe  
_

_Yipes! Mr Therapist! Heeeelp! I've an imaginary furball of fury on my case! O  
_

_I'M NOT A FURBALL! IT'S A HIERRO, NOT HAIR, DUMBASS!  
_


	4. You or Nothing

_You. Damn You. Why did it have to be you? Of all the others, why you?_

Why do you insist on being such an irritation, finding fights where you never triumph, that type of battle is utterly pointless. I see no sense in it, and yet you continue to seek me out for your constant defeat. Is it your search for inexhaustible power, or your eternal urge to prove it?

And why to me, of all the others? There are so many much stronger than you, than me. Why am I always the object of your violent intentions, what do I have in particular to soothe your reckless rage?

You're permanently a pesk, and yet I'm not bothered by you- in the same way that a beast isn't disturbed by a beatle. Becoming Pantera barely changes anything, pest. Perhaps you're not even worth being termed 'trash'. You are a tiresome creature, hardly a terrible threat enough to go to the trouble of battling you. Even so, for some reason we are always engaged in the exchange of blows and wrathful words. Obviously, none of your hits ever hurt.

Although, I am beginning to feel slightly sore...

"WHAT!THE!HELL! IS WRONG! WITH YOU!" you punctuate each word with a punch to my face.

_What the hell is wrong with you? _I wonder, as you sit there astride me, panting and head hung, countenance obscured in shadow, while mine is in bruises.

You're silent. How unusual.

You've gotten stronger though, enough to cause some mild internal bleeding. I barely wince when your claws dig into me, sharp and harsh, they rip through the cloth of my collar, but not my skin.

'_Che! He's got one thick hide of a hierro, that's for sure,_' Ulquiorra's aggressor thought grimly, but he had smugly noted his superior's slight flinch as he grabbed his shoulders. Their chests rise and fall simultaneously, though the oppressed individual steadies his breath first, calmly staring and waiting for Grimmjow's next attack.

He frowns, and sits back, adding substantial weight and pressure to the Cuatro's chest, barely eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Never for a moment does he relinquish his grip on him though. He's noticed the tiniest of gasps emitted by his fellow Espada.

"Please, Grimmjow…Please…"

_Ulquiorra_, begging him? Impossible.

"_Stop_…"

He can't believe this. He must be dreaming, but then it'd be a nightmare. Ulquiorra Schiffer, the Cuatro Espada _pleading_ with the _Sexta_ for mercy? For his life? Never. _Never!_

He'll never stop.

Because he'll never win, he's never undefeated.

Again and again, going against you- what's the point if either one of us gives up and gives in to the other now? Where's the sense in stopping? Who else would I go to in the hopes of challenge and with the aim to conquer? Why would you ask me this now? _How could you?_

How can I answer you? With your hand pressed against my face and your green eyes drawing me into your dangerous depths, or is it an abyss that actually awaits me? Are those emeralds hoarding emptiness instead?

I've never been afraid of losing my life, only my battles. After I left the real world, and came to in Hueco Mundo, right away I identified a complete lack of regret over my loss of life. If there was anything that I was remotely remorseful over, it was that I hadn't dragged whichever bastard that killed me down together. Then again, that was probably a positive thing in retrospect, since undoubtedly we would have continued trying to take each other's afterlife anyway. In this realm of death, permanently dead and so in a way, eternally alive. Any sense of loss was erased, the liability of life was taken away. Death had made me immortal.

I was a_ King_.

In the time of ascending from the low life form of an Adjuchas to Arrancar, I had countless battles, hundreds of hearts to rip and thousands of throats to tear. The loss of any battle was equivalent to the loss of life, that was the law of Living. Those who broke the law were those with broken bones, either of their bodies or masks, such souls were subsequently broken by the law, having to succumb and submit to those stronger than them.

I've been feared, never fearful. A terror that didn't know terror. So this foreign feeling, this sense of unease as I sit here, upon you and yet under your hypnotic stare, weighing heavy on my shoulders as I grip yours, is this what it is? Your calm, cool gaze sends shivers down my spine, your warm palm heats my cheeks and yet I can't break away from this sight and your touch.

_And...your...scent..._

Your head droops forward slightly, dipping a little closer to my face-though both our expressions are just as unreadable. What's the matter, Sexta, are you losing control of what little senses you have? Or rather, have you lost yourself... _to your senses?_

You've never been one for logic, and I wonder if you've ever even had to use it before. I expect you just fought your way through everything with sheer..._mere _brute force. You cannot help it, it is what you are. Just a beast, nothing more, burdened by your brain-or lack thereof, more likely. I see it, your willfulness, your wildness, a boldness and a brashness that is so..._becoming _of you. I wonder sometimes, if you have a mind. More often... than I like to admit though, I wonder what goes through it...

What, or _who's_ on your mind? The expressions are unreadable, as ever, as is typical. No surprise there-or on your same usual blank,bored facade etched upon your face, emerald eyes eternally betraying nothing-but your body does, your breath _hitches. _Cuatro, your countenance is constructed so carefully, never shifting, ever stoic; crafted perfect as porcelain. Your eyes are nothing more than ornaments, _dead_...but then, what did I expect? From souls like ours? Heh, what _souls? _We can hardly be considered alive, after all. We're dead, we're _Death _itself_._

Brazenly, boldly we embody this aspect of being an Arrancar, this imminent immortality. Ironic then, isn't it? That throughout the eternity of our existence as Espada, we are more humanoid now than we have ever been as Hollow, and still we mock the mortals, scorning them even when we have scoffed their souls. Perhaps it's a kind of justice then, after all that ravaging, all that hunting of lesser Hollows and lesser still Humans, we've arrived as Arrancar that, apart from our broken masks and holes, look perfectly human, and we no longer need to consume them for survival, simply sport. But where's the fun in easy prey? A glorious game lies in killing each other, or trying to, that makes for a _much bloodier,_ better battle. I get a kick out of it, often quite _literally_.

_You _have _perfect_...I mean perfectly human looks-but you wear another mask, a second one that seems impossible to shatter. There are no cracks in the Cuatro's countenance, this Espada's aura is edged with an emptiness of emotion. If I broke every bone in the lithe frame that is your body, if I rip open your chest, if I crack open your skull, would it...would you break?

But how can I tear away what isn't there, how do you annihilate the air? Something that I feel, that is tangible even without seeing it, that I can't live without?

How can I..._touch_ nothingness?

* * *

Er-hemm, well that's the fifth chapter up and flying...or flagging/staggering as it may be. I really apologize about the long overdue update folks, but you know how it is with Holidays...plus the Inspirations&Ideas were just limping around inside my much distracted head, and _that_ certainly didn't help. Oh yes, and there were a few lines that were 'exact quotes' from Ulquiorra's speech about the heart, or lack thereof. I put them in for obvious/obscure reasons, depending on how **_you_** look at it (; Anyway I hope it was an enjoyable read for most of you, do let me know if it was, as well as how I can make it good- and I hope you all have a great Christmas! C:

~Wriot


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